


The Sheriff's Laundry

by xtinapot



Series: Clothesline [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Sheriff Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:20:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xtinapot/pseuds/xtinapot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sheriff finds an unfamiliar jeans in his son's laundry by accident. Everything starts from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sheriff's Laundry

      John bends down and picks a random shirt from the laundry basket, bringing it to his nose. It smells as clean as it looks. He looks around the hallway, almost expecting Stiles to peek out from his bedroom door and immediately spout out the most ridiculous excuse why he left the laundry there.

       There’s no Stiles, though. John looks down again at the blue shirt he’s holding, recognizing it as his son’s. He tosses it back to the basket and rummages around, confirming that Stiles only did his own laundry.

       He stands up and calls out, “Stiles.”

       John counts to five. Still no Stiles. He sighs and picks up the laundry basket, heading to his son’s bedroom.

       The door is open, and John takes that as an invitation. The bedroom is in its usual disarray; books shoved in various corners, bed unmade, and assorted knickknacks on the floor. Stiles is not a slob, but he often gets distracted enough and leaves things in different places before remembering to pick them up.

       Thus, the laundry basket in the hallway. John frowns. Stiles hadn’t done that in a long time. It must be a really urgent reason if it can distract Stiles from doing a routine {‘doing’ isn’t needed, just ‘a routine’, though it’s OK if you don’t want to change it}, and the likelihood that it involves Stiles’ best friend Scott is high.

        Stiles has been doing both of their laundry almost religiously after his mother died. It’s one of the things Gemma taught their son, and John has sometimes seen them reading a book together while they wait for the washing machine to finish.

       John sighs again, looking down at the laundry basket he left on the floor beside Stiles’ closet. His plan is to put the basket inside his son’s bedroom and go to his own room to sleep. He picks the basket up again and goes to sit on Stiles’ bed, setting the basket on the floor.

       He starts folding Stiles’ clothes, remembering it was him who taught Stiles this chore. John smiles, his tired mind clearing up a bit.

        He’s exhausted because he spent the last three days and nights in the station trying to find five kidnapped teenagers. An anonymous tip was called in this morning and John sent a deputy to check out the specified abandoned warehouse. All of the kidnapped victims were found there, unconscious but physically unharmed.

      John left the hospital after being assured by the doctors that the victims were fine but would be unconsciousness for an indeterminate time, and went straight home, calling the station from his patrol car.

       He expected Stiles to be home, waiting for him so Stiles could interrogate him about the case he had been unsubtly nosing about while bringing John lunch in the station.  

       What John found is an abandoned laundry basket in the upstairs hallway. He shakes his head, thinking of a good way to –

       John stops. He’s about to add the folded jeans he’s holding to the pile on Stiles’ bed when he finally realizes why the jeans looks unfamiliar.

       He unfolds the jeans again, raising them away from him and turning them around.

       They aren’t Stiles’. Their waist is bigger than the other pants in Stiles’ wardrobe; John knows that much about his son. They aren’t John’s, either. The waist is smaller, and even if it’s the same size as his waist, he doesn’t own a pair of pants that you have to basically wedge yourself into so they’ll at least fit around your ankles.

       Maybe Stiles needed to borrow someone’s pants; Stiles is hyperactive and clumsy. John folds the pants again, trying to ignore the niggling feeling at the back of his head while depositing the jeans in a separate place farther from the rest of Stiles’ clothes.

       John can’t help the yawn after folding the last piece of clothing in the basket. He stands up and goes to his own room, leaving Stiles’ clothes in the bed because putting them inside his son’s closet is probably in the zone of “more-than-necessary invasion of privacy.”

 

* * *

 

      The next time John helps Stiles do the laundry, he’s separating the whites from the colored {‘coloreds’} when he picks up a gray Henley that has a hole in the stomach area and blood surrounding it. John does a double-take.

       “Stiles,” John says.

       “What?” Stiles is getting more detergent powder in the cabinet near the washing machine. “Dad, why do you insist buying this brand? I hate the smell. Good thing I kept some of my detergent for emergency brand-ambushing like this. It’s here some – “

       “Do you own a gray Henley?”

       “No.” Stiles pauses then pulls his head out of the cabinet to look at John. When he sees what his father is holding, he grimaces.

       “Not mine,” Stiles stands up, and John has long accepted that he’ll never stop feeling the occasional sense of wonder at how he didn’t doesn’t have to look so far down anymore to talk to his son eye-to-eye, but it doesn’t mean he’s still not surprised about it sometimes.

       Stiles is only a bit shorter than John, but as his son trips over his words to explain the bloodied Henley, he looks a lot smaller than he actually is.

       “We used it in a play, in Economics, don’t ask me because Coach FInstock teaching it is a big mystery enough, and I know you can tell that it’s real blood but that’s from Dea – Dr. Deaton’s clinic. We were going for authenticity. I got voted to bring it home and wash it.”

       “We?”

       “Our entire group, in Economics.”

       “So if I call your coach and ask about it, he’ll back-up your story?”

       Stiles looks at the small window. “Uh…probably? He has lots of stuff going on. You can call the vet clinic because Dr. Deaton won’t forget students asking for animal blood samples.”

       John stares at his son who looks back at him, waiting for his response. “Stiles, are you in any kind of danger?” John remembers the strange books he caught glimpses of the last time he dropped by in Stiles’ bedroom to tell his son something. “Did you join a cult?”

       Stiles quickly blinks several times, then laughs. John basks on the relief washing over him. His son lying to John hurts him  {‘lying to him hurts John’}, but at least John knows when Stiles is actually lying and when he’s telling the truth. And Stiles knows that John knows.

       “No, Dad, I’m not in a cult. Or a gang. I’m not on drugs, either, using or selling,” Stiles says.

       John knows that it doesn’t answer who and where the bloodied shirt comes from, but Stiles’ open, bright laughter reassures him, for now. He looks at the shirt he’s holding and gives it to Stiles. “Wash that separately, I don’t want the K9’s sniffing dog’s blood on my uniform.”

       John knows it’s a lame joke, but Stiles laughs again like it’s the most hilarious thing in the world.

       Later, when John is walking to his room and passes by his son’s, he remembers the unfamiliar jeans he found in Stiles’ laundry basket. He frowns.

 

* * *

 

 

      John stares back at the note that fell from Stiles’ hamper full of unwashed clothes. He came down with his own laundry and saw Stiles’ in front of the washer. He decided he might as well wash it with his own dirty clothes. Stiles had left suddenly, saying something about Scott and his dog problems.

       John didn’t mean to read the note; he picked it up and unfolded it almost absently. Now, he isn’t sure if it’s a good thing or not.

       There’s nothing really wrong with it. Not a note about a secret drug-dealing meeting place or a step-by-step ritual involving animal sacrifices. But, even without context, the whole thing is worrying John for some reason.

       It’s A4, filled with handwritten notes made by what looks like two people. It’s crammed from front to back.

       John recognizes one set of handwriting. It’s Stiles’.  He’s the one who first wrote on the paper:

 

      _You need milk. Your pups need milk. You may hate it but they like it so be a responsible alpha boss and buy the freakin milk because I also want milk in my cereal. What the fuck did you even buy cereal for? Do you put coffee in it? Or simply chomp it between your fangs to make those crunchy sounds? Ugh. Buy milk!!!!_

 

      The other set of handwriting, regularly spaced, and lacking unnecessary strokes, replied below that with:

 

      **Shut up, Stiles. Isaac is the one who buys the cereals and forgets to buy enough milk. They drink milk like it’s water. Why are you even eating ~~my~~ ~~our~~  my cereal? Go home. P.S. Thanks for the lasagna yesterday. Now, go home and stop posting notes on my door. **

_Ha, I knew you’d like it, and by you I mean that includes Isaac, Erica, and Boyd. Though I'm not sure if I should be flattered because their taste buds don't usually match their apetites. They eat everything. Anyway, Isaac told me where you put the money for emergency food shopping. Seriously, in a jar? Inside your kitchen cabinet?_

         **When I said stop posting notes, I didn’t mean that only on my door. That also includes my car’s window. P.S. Give me back the copy of my car and house keys if you’re just going to insult my amazing housekeeping skills.**

        _Dude, having a money jar is not housekeeping. P.S. I can return it but I may or may not make another set._

  **And I’m the creepy one. P.S. I don’t want this to be a thing. Stop leaving this in my house.**

        _Yes, you are creepy. This is a thing, because you keep answering, and leaving it places I will see, and Isaac said you got angry when he almost vacuumed this paper. Hahahaha._

        **I did not. Are you okay? You looked upset the whole time we were watching the Godfather (for the 10 th time, I’ll pick the next movie, damn it).**

        _Tell that to Erica, duh. I’m not upset. Just you know, some anniversaries are not celebratory. Oh hey, Erica gave me a whole stack of paper, it’s red idk why. Said this one will run out of space soon._

          **It’s color-coded. This is your fault, now they’re’ leaving notes around the house. Erica said I communicate better in paper; it’s training for me. What the hell.**

_Shut up, sourwolf. I saw you answering Isaac’s paper (blue is Isaac’s, right?) yesterday, YOU WERE SMILING._

        **You shut up. Shit, I can barely write anything here anymore. P.S. Your handwriting turns uglier the smaller it gets.**

      That’s the end the last conversation. John doesn’t really know what to make of that. He’s pretty sure Stiles has a crush on this person, and is glaringly obvious about it. He’s never been really shy about his crushes, his son.

      This time, John thinks the person Stiles is practically wooing (really, baking his specialty and pulling pigtails) is a _he_ who owns a house and a car, lives with three other people and Stiles hangs out with all of them.

        John thinks of confronting his son about it. Whoever the guy is, he’s probably older, and not rejecting Stiles. It even looks like the guy’s flirting back. Stiles turned eighteen three months ago. It looks like Stiles has known this person for a long time. When did he even start hanging out with anyone other than Scott?

       So, should this mean he has to initiate another Talk with Stiles? This time involves having sex with another, older guy. John imagines Stiles’ face, and snorts, almost outweighing his own discomfort at the thought of doing another Talk.

       John scratches his cheeks, folds the paper again, and puts it between Stiles’ shirts. Stiles can do his own laundry today.

       He doesn’t remember about the tight jeans and bloodied Henley until five days later, right before a monster comes crashing in front of him.

 

* * *

 

      John doesn’t confront Stiles. He figures Stiles will tell him about it in his own time. It’s not like Stiles is doing anything harmful to himself or anyone. John will wait and see how this new attraction for someone will affect Stiles before doing his “parenting thing”.

       John is in the only grocery store that’s open until midnight; it’s already quarter to eleven by the time he leaves the station

       He’s heading to the detergent section, thinking why he always forgets which brand Stiles likes, when he turns a corner and sees Stiles standing next to Derek Hale. They look they’re debating what brand of cereal to buy.

       And everything clicks in John’s mind; he swears his brain brain actually makes a sound. 

       Click. Tight Jeans, like the ones Derek Hale is wearing right now.

       Click. Shot and Bloodied Henley, from former murder suspect Derek Hale.

      Click. Notes about food shopping. Click, Derek Hale is older. Click, Derek Hale owns a house now, and still driving his car. Click, Isaac Lahey turning eighteen almost same time as Stiles and left his foster home to drop under the radar. Click. Click. Click.

       John is angry, partly at Stiles and mostly at himself. If Derek Hale is still getting into trouble, proven by his bloodied shirt, and he involves Stiles –

       But before he can do, say, or _think_ anything else, there’s a crash behind him.  He whirls around, hands going to his gun.

       “That’s – DAD!”

       John barely hears his son over the roar the monster makes. It’s looking at John.

       John is getting his gun out of the holster, not breaking eye contact with the monster that looks like the troll in the Harry Potter movie Stiles used to watch, when he’s suddenly pulled and someone gets in front of him.

       A familiar leather jacket blocks his view. John is still being pulled, and his eyes follow the hand holding his arm, ending up at his son’s pale face.

       “Dad, when – where – Are you okay?“

       “I’m what? Are you okay? That’s Derek Hale, why are you – “

       “What? He’s just saving us – “

       Oh, right. The troll. Must be the shock. John looks back at the troll, about to ask what can Derek Hale’s muscled arms do with a monster like that, but freezes when he realizes that in place of Hale is another fanged-monster baring his teeth and flashing his red eyes at the troll.

       “What?” John says.

       Then another crash and four creatures four creatures similar to the one wearing Hale’s leather jacket come in through the smashed window the troll used as entrance.

       “Oh, thank god, they’re here, I forgot my bat in the Jeep,” Stiles says.

       “What?” John says, again.

       Stiles winces, pulling John further into the space between a shelf and the wall.

       “Let’s talk about this later,” Stiles says.

       “Sorry, boss. We thought we killed the last one,” someone says.

       John looks around and watches as the troll screams again. It’s fast for its huge body mass. It lunges to the other window, and runs away.

       “Go,” Hale says. The other four practically leap out of the window, following the troll.

        Hale turns around and he’s his human self again. John uses his body to shield his son when Hale approaches them.

       Hale stops, looking stricken, as if it’s John who can shift into a werewolf and claw Derek out.

       “Dad, it’s okay. That’s just Derek Hale. Scott’s a werewolf too. They are not going to harm us. Well, I don’t know about other werewolves but Scott, Derek, and Derek’s pack are the good guys. Not exactly good, because there’s a lot of gray areas in – the point is, it’s okay now, Dad.”

       “What part of this is okay?” John asks, getting angry. He isn’t surprised to realize that he’s shouting. “Do you even know what okay means?”

       John, half-expecting Stiles to stutter out garbled explanation with a ridiculous interpretation of the word ‘okay’ thrown in it, is so shocked at Stiles’ next reaction that his anger deflates to give way to absolute confusion.

      Stiles flinches as if John’s loud voice physically flayed him. He looks away. His worried expression closes off, turning into an unreadable expression. But John can still glimpse the hurt written across whatever that expression is on Stiles’ face that makes him look a lot older. And, somehow, John finally sees how Stiles can have an emergency bat ready inside his Jeep for surprise monster attacks.  

       Still, nothing explains _why_ Stiles has to have an emergency bat ready inside his Jeep for surprise monster attacks.

       The anger is making a comeback and John reins it in, stomping it down to make more room for patience. It’s a hard endeavor especially when betrayal and disbelief at how his son can hide so many big things about his life from the only parent he has are clamoring inside John’s chest. Contrary to what greeting cards tell people, there is no fountain of wisdom and patience that you can get a drink from when you turn into a parent.

       John watches as Stiles’ posture changes from defeated to defiant. When Stiles opens his mouth, John braces himself to hear obvious lies and half-assed excuses but before words can come out of it, there’s a hurt whimper from behind John. John reflexively turns around, almost expecting a dog staggering inside the store, but only sees Derek Hale looking at his son with a worried expression.  

       “I’ll explain later. Can we go now before your deputies arrive?” Stiles finally says, his shoulders slumping down again. He takes step back away from John and looks at Hale. “Can you go with my dad to his car? Then you should also leave, you’re already a person of interest far too many times. I’ll follow you, guys, after I destroy the CCTV feed.”

       Hale nods, still not moving away from the spot where John’s warning stance stopped him.

       “Wait, Stiles,” John says, putting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, “I –“

       John doesn’t know what his voice sounds like but it makes Stiles looks at him, hopeful.

       John isn’t sure what’s really happening, why Derek Hale being a werewolf makes it okay, or why his son has turned a sport equipment into a weapon, and why his mind automatically jumped to erasing evidence like a habit, but John remembers how pale and worried Stiles was when he pulled his father away from the troll.

       So John thinks of the best way to convey to Stiles that he’s not going to abandon Stiles or hate him (or whatever the reason was for his fear when Stiles flinched away from him) without sounding overeager and insincere.

       “Is this why you’re not telling me you’re dating Derek Hale?’ John finds himself saying, his mind choosing that as the least of his worries after considering all things.

       John will later sit down and gives his brain a lecture. Right now, he’s trying hard not to let out an audible sigh of relief as Stiles’ eyes and mouth open comically wide. 

        “What?”

       “You’re dating this guy, right?” John points a thumb to Derek’s direction.

       “No, Dad, what even – How did the troll almost attacking us makes you think I’m dating Derek?”

       Huh, so they’re not dating. Yet. John nods, pushing Stiles. “I have no idea what you are about to do so just go go, and meet me at the house.”

       Stiles is blushing slightly when he walks away, trying very hard not to glance to where Derek is looming behind John. He smiles uncertainly at his father before turning the corner.

       “And that includes you. Did you bring your car?” John says as he turns around to face Derek Hale.

       Hale nods. John feels a bit of satisfaction at seeing Derek Hale blanching. His deputies won’t believe it. Hale barely flinched when they arrested him before.

       “See you in my house. From the way you keep leaving clothes around it, you know the direction, right?”

       Hales doesn’t answer for a long time, like he’s wondering if any positive response to John’s question will earn him a night or two in jail. But John can claim to have the patience of an saint at this point, so he keeps staring until Hale relents and nods.

      “We are going to talk, and depending on what you say, I’ll decide if you can have dinner with us every weekend.”

       Derek Hale blinks, then finally understands the implication because this time, he answers verbally, “Yes, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, betaed. Thank you [SisterMu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SisterMu/pseuds/SisterMu), I hope you get well soon.  
> All the remaining mistakes are mine. I added some paragraphs that are not in the draft I sent her. Thanks for reading.


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